Returning
by WhiteLadyoftheRing
Summary: Just a little rambly angstlet oneshot I wrote. A return to the opera house. LerouxALW hybrid. Please read and review!


Disclaimer: Yeah, don't own anything. Boo hoo.

_A Note From the Authoress: Hey all! Okay, yeah I'm back. Just for a little one-shot, though. It'sa quickie, too, and probably not the best thing I've ever done, but I rather like it. It's different than the other, I guess. Oh, and for the record it's Leroux-ALW hybrid . . . you'll see. I just sort of took things from random places and enjoyed myself. :) I really did it to avoid writing my current novel in progress, so I hope something productive came from this! Please, read and review!

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**Returning**_

The Opera was closed; she'd expected that. After all, it held a lot of memories for everyone. The days had been long and fruitless, dragging through sunrises and sunsets, waking and sleeping, and all she'd felt were the remnants of that initial numbness. She always knew that their affair was one that would end eventually; there was no doubt in that. It was an impossible, forbidden love, and they'd basked in its glow for far longer than either had expected. But still, clutching that dried, deep red rose in her fragile little hands, her mind refused to believe anything had really ever happened.

They could lock the doors, but she'd find a way in; it had been her home for so long, she knew its secrets. She'd found her way to the costume loft, sorting through old tutus and Juliet skirts which she'd worn so many times before, the itchy fabric of ballet costumes that used to transform her into something divine, something to be desired, and yet it seemed so long ago. The scent of mothballs and deserted cloth soothed her like that of some rich, exotic perfume, perhaps something her love had imported from some far away land, something he'd given her as one of his lavish gifts.

Sighing, she turned away from her past, the ghosts therein too powerful to bear. She was alone; utterly alone. She had no-one else to turn to; he was gone and that was a fact. Her career had drifted away with her sanity, as no other company was in need of the star they assured her she was. Overqualified, they'd said. They obviously didn't understand that she _needed_ a job, not for monetary reasons, but for herself. She needed something to push thoughts of romance aside for her true love: the stage.

Ah, the stage, that had always been her life; to perform, to pretend to be something she was not. When she donned that costume and waltzed into the bright stage lighting, she was no longer some little ballet rat, but a princess, an empress, a faerie . . . whatever the story called for. She was a goddess to all those who watched, and, for the briefest of moments, she, too, believed it. And it was where she belonged, not wandering the streets of Paris, a dead rose clasped tightly within her hands. She was destined for greatness, even if it only lasted for those few brief hours every night.

Something stirred behind her. She whirled round to find several costumes swinging back and forth on their hangings, although she could not tell whether she'd caused it or the ghost had. No, there was no ghost, only a man; a poor man that had made his home in the bowels of the Opera. But she couldn't think of him, not now . . . it was all his fault; surely it was. But she pitied the poor creature, that man of half-masked glory. These days she often likened herself to him, in that his horrible face and monstrous acts covered the undeniable beauty of his soul, and that her beauty and talents hid her anything but virtuous heart. Which was the monster, then? She really couldn't say.

Not that anyone would believe it. The infamous La Sorelli a monster? It seemed impossible that something so handsome could hide something so terrible. She held great guilt inside herself, as if she regretted ever having loved that man. She'd forgotten how, but she'd figured out how her love's demise had been her own doing. In a way, it was a comfort, to have something tangible to berate for this tragedy, something besides a ghost.

She began towards the stage, inhaling the lingering perfume of her precious flower. He'd given it to her, Philippe had. It was the last present he'd given her, a simple flower as many performers received after their grand shows. She'd dried it on impulse, thinking that for some reason it was special and would be precious to her in time. When she'd realized the truth in this, she thought it simply that her superstitious nature gave her a certain edge when it came to instinct, and she was glad of it. As of now, the delicate blossom was her most prized possession.

A noise.

She stopped.

Was that the sound of someone crying?

She shifted her shoulders uncomfortably. The quiet sobs echoed through the grand open stage, filling the area with a hauntingly beautiful, and sorrowful, sound. Touching her cheek, she found a tear, but her weeping was silent, a soundless, mournful cry from deep within. The sounds, soft as they were, rang in a symphony of ghosts, sirens from the deep. She sighed, looking out into the rows and rows of abandoned seats. A lonely sight, she thought.

Within these walls, so many had found love and heartbreak, joy and despair, and yet right now she felt she was the only one to truly know the meaning of those words. She'd always been pushed aside, despite her position, despite her talent . . . and now no-one even noticed she was there. Perhaps that's what she really wanted. Upon this stage, even more had found fantasies and nightmares, beauty and the screeching of a diva's unperfected voice, but right now it was all hers: the whirling, intoxicating drug of the stage, the reason she loved what she did.

Immediately taking on the roll of the ballerina, she straightened, pulling her shoulders down and back, lifting her chin with a dignified air. She started off with a piece from one of her favorite variations: a simple preparation, a small catlike jump, a little twirl ending in attitude derriere. Her face, beaming despite the tears, shone in the darkness, reflecting the light of a candle she didn't remember bringing in. She took a grand step to her right, tucking her left foot behind in a low curtsey and did the same, moving to the left.

But no applause came.

Only one sound echoed through the vast halls of the Opera, a mournful, pitiable cry that rang through her very core. A single word held the source of such unimaginable pain, a name that she knew all too well.

"Christine . . ."

She turned on her heel, looking round into the familiar shadows of the stage until her vision settled on where she knew very well Box Five resided. Her precious rose fell, crumpled from her grasp. She opened her mouth, releasing an untrained but melodious voice, trembling, but firm and knowing.

"_He's here, the Phantom of the Opera . . ._"


End file.
